Chapter 172: Chapter 172 Cordelia Takes Control
Seraphina’s POV
The kitchen called to me, but something felt wrong before I even stepped inside. Instead of the familiar warmth of fresh bread or the rich smell of evening broth that usually filled the air at this hour, an overwhelming mixture of scents hit me. Too many dishes cooking simultaneously, creating an almost suffocating blend.
My footsteps rang against the stone floor as I entered the Parkhouse kitchen. The space buzzed with frantic energy. More than ten women moved about, their hands busy with chopping and stirring, their movements creating a symphony of clattering metal and bubbling pots.
Then my eyes found her. A petite woman with her back turned toward me, working at a large pot with focused concentration. My heart practically soared with recognition.
"Ma?" The word slipped from my lips as barely a whisper, yet somehow it sliced through all the kitchen noise.
She whirled around instantly, her eyes going wide with shock before a sharp gasp escaped. "Seraphina!"
Without hesitation, she abandoned her station and rushed toward me. Her apron billowed behind her as she crossed the distance between us, her arms already reaching out. I dropped down to meet her embrace, catching her as she threw herself against me.
Her grip around my neck was fierce, almost desperate in its intensity. I pressed my face into her familiar hair, drawing in her scent that perfect combination of cooking spices, woodsmoke, and something indefinably comforting that belonged only to her.
"My precious girl! I’ve missed you beyond words!" Her voice broke with emotion as she cried against my shoulder.
Tears threatened to spill from my own eyes. "I missed you too, Ma! More than you know!" The weight of those months apart suddenly crashed over me. Half a year. Six endless months of separation. It had stretched like a lifetime. Ma and Pa, being fully human, had always harbored deep fears about traveling between different pack territories. The dangers seemed too great, the risk of not belonging too real. That’s exactly why our face-to-face meetings had become so rare. Though we maintained almost daily phone conversations, nothing compared to holding her like this.
She stepped back just enough to frame my face with her hands, her eyes bright with unshed tears and pure joy. "Just look at you, sweetheart. You’re absolutely glowing." Her fingers squeezed mine gently.
Mixed feelings swirled through me about finding her working in this kitchen, but I also recognized something important. She seemed genuinely happy here, happier than I’d seen her in ages. They’d even constructed a proper home for my parents on the grounds.
I managed a real smile, one that came straight from my heart, before carefully pulling away from Ma’s loving hold. "That makes me so happy, Ma. Truly it does." I turned my attention to the other women throughout the kitchen, noting how they’d stopped their tasks to watch our reunion with expressions I couldn’t quite read. "Good afternoon, everyone," I announced, making sure my voice carried authority and confidence.
Immediately, every head bowed in unison, a wave of respect flowing through the group. "Luna," they responded together, their voices subdued. The familiar acknowledgment reminded me of my position and the power that came with it.
But as I surveyed the bustling scene again, that nagging sense of wrongness returned. The massive amount of food preparation, the frantic pace of cooking, and especially the timing. "Is something special happening today?" I questioned, confusion creeping into my voice. "Some kind of celebration or feast?"
A small spark of hope flickered in my chest. Perhaps they’d organized a welcome-back dinner as a surprise? A thoughtful gesture to mark my return after such a long absence?
One of the women, heavyset with a stern expression, moved forward slightly. "No, Luna," she replied, her tone completely flat and lacking any warmth. "This is simply our normal dinner preparation time."
That hopeful spark died instantly, replaced by sharp irritation and a cold weight settling in my stomach. "Three o’clock?" I demanded, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Since when exactly? Before I left, I established clear guidelines that dinner preparation begins at four-thirty. Any earlier interferes with everyone’s other responsibilities, their training sessions, their family time.
Nobody wants to eat food that’s gone cold either. I specifically wanted to prevent that kind of waste and show proper respect for everyone’s efforts."
The woman shared a meaningful look with another cook, and I caught the hint of a smirk crossing her features, along with something rebellious flickering in her gaze. "Well, Luna," she drawled, deliberately stretching out each word with calculated slowness, "this has been our standard routine for months now."
The way she delivered those words. That pointed emphasis on "months now." This wasn’t simply an explanation. It was a deliberate provocation. A thinly disguised insult masquerading as compliance. It was a direct challenge, clear evidence that my rules, my decisions, my very authority had been completely ignored the moment I’d stepped away. Anger began building in my veins, a slow but dangerous fire. I held the position of Luna. I refused to be disrespected by my own pack members, especially not here in my own territory, in my own kitchen.
My eyes narrowed as I studied each face, watching them all suddenly find the floor fascinating. "Who," I said, dropping my voice to a menacingly quiet level, each word hitting like a physical blow in the sudden, oppressive silence, "gave you permission to make such changes?" The kitchen atmosphere grew dense and suffocating. Cooking sounds ceased completely. Every woman froze in place, their eyes darting around nervously like cornered animals.
Then, cutting through that heavy silence from the kitchen’s far end, came a voice that was smooth and dripping with insufferable confidence. "I did."
I spun around, my pulse racing as cold shock washed over me, drowning out the anger with pure disbelief. There, casually leaning against a counter with an expression of triumph and smugness, stood someone I hadn’t laid eyes on in over nine years. Her red hair was twisted into a careless bun, and those eyes, so similar to my own, held something I couldn’t immediately identify a blend of defiance and something much darker.
This couldn’t be happening.
Cordelia. My cousin from my mother’s family and, more significantly, my childhood tormentor.
My thoughts spun wildly, struggling to make sense of what I was seeing. What possible reason could she have for being here? Why was she standing in my kitchen acting like she belonged? And most importantly, what made her think she had any authority to make decisions in my pack?
